


Alone in the Ark

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bumblebee gets left behind to guard the Ark and its one Decepticon prisoner. Little does he realise that it will turn out to be far more eventful than he anticipated.</p><p>Contains: slash, crack, enthusiastic consensual sticky interfacing with a hint of dubcon/coercion, pwp.</p><p>Written for . This was my first ever stickyfic, which might explain a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Optimus struck a pose. Heroic and competent, every inch the strong, charismatic leader.

"Transform and roll out!"

Bumblebee grinned and initiated his transformation sequence.

"Not you, Bumblebee."

Bee sagged halfway between root and alt modes. Not again. This happened every single time. They'd get a call from humans in Mortal Peril, Optimus would rally the troops, and Bee would get stuck guarding the base. Great.

Especially great seeing as Spike was on vacation with Sparkplug. Bee couldn't work out why they wanted to go away for a fortnight when all the fun happened around the Ark, but humans could be strange sometimes. And it left him with no-one to talk to.

Sulking back into root mode, Bee watched the others as they drove valiantly off in the direction of danger and excitement, their windshields gleaming in the late afternoon sun. The desert was beautiful, made even more so by the plume of dust stirred up by their tyres. He would have given anything to be with them.

Instead, he was here.

One base, one hyper-intelligent super computer, and one Minibot.

Correction: one empty, lonely, base with long echoing corridors; one hyper-intelligent super computer who was always far too busy to talk to a lowly scout; and one courageous, highly effective and yet deeply-disheartened Minibot who was already getting bored.

Yep; this, as Spike would say, was a drag. And not the cool kind of drag, which was suffixed with 'racing', and which made very loud noises and was great fun to emulate on cool desert nights when Wheeljack had nothing better to do. Nope, this was the dull kind of drag, where there was nothing at all of any use for Bee to get on with because Teletraan One did it all for him.

One Minibot, all on his own.

Completely and utterly alone.

The thought occurred to him that maybe this wasn't all that bad after all. He could watch what he wanted on TV. He could play music at a volume that would usually make Skyfire put on his responsible voice and ask him politely yet firmly to turn it back down again. He could jimmy the lock on the Twins' personal stash of high grade, and maybe pinch just a bit of Sunstreaker's polish. What was good for the Lamborghini must be good for the Mini, right?

He glanced towards Teletraan One, whose 'I'm busy, leave me the slag alone' lights were flashing in a very pretty but also highly cautionary pattern.

Monitor duty, pah! He didn't need to stick by the monitors, the monitors looked after themselves.

"I'm going on patrol," he said, just in case Red Alert had set the security cameras on him. Patrol was a worthy cause. He could patrol all the way into the rec. room, and plump down on that nice, big soft sofa...

"Acknowledged," Teletraan One responded. "You have one notification: at 2100 hours the prisoner will require nourishment. Ensure your patrol route takes you by the brig."

Bee sagged again. Oh yeah, they didn't just have a base full of one hyper-intelligent and very boring super computer and one soon-to-be-highly-entertained Minibot, but one insane and fundamentally creepy Decepticon interrogator. Who, apparently, Bee needed to feed.

Wonderful.

"I'm on it," Bee sighed. He left the control room before Teletraan One could think of any other dumbaft things for him to do.

He wasn't on it. In just over thirty astroseconds, he was in fact on the enormous squishy sofa in the rec. room. It wasn’t even evening yet, there was loads of time before 2100 hours.

He sighed and sprawled out, propping his pedes on one of the giant plump arms, his helm resting in the middle of an enormous plush cushion. It was wonderful.

He dug the remote out of a gap in the upholstery, and clicked on the TV.

Channel hopping was also wonderful. As was having the energon dispenser to himself. Not to mention not having to share his seat with anyone. He could lay back, relax, and wonder what the frag the squishies were doing on that channel he’d just gone past.

He clicked the back button until he found it again. Then he sat up. After a moment, he tilted his head to one side, his mouth tugged simultaneously in an ‘O’ of awe and an appalled grimace. He remained like that for a while.

The squishies were… They were… He wasn’t sure. Interfacing? Possibly.

Whatever they were doing, they were naked. Kind of. And bouncy. Very bouncy. And Bee really couldn’t imagine Prowl signing off the funds for this kind of cable package.

And yet, there it was, in glorious Technicolor as Sparkplug would say. Not that Bee really knew what that meant.

It wasn’t arousing. Oh no, absolutely not. That’d be… disgusting, that’s what that would be.

But it was just a little bit intriguing.

After a while, he decided to blame it on Wheeljack. Hadn’t he been messing around with the receiver, trying to access more free sports channels for Spike and Sparkplug? And Optimus, although Bee would never suggest that to his face.

It was obviously Wheeljack’s fault. Just like it was Wheeljack’s fault that Bee hadn’t quite managed to change the channel just yet. It reminded him of a glimpse he’d once caught of a pair of Seekers going at it under a viaduct in Polyhex.

Now there was an image that had stayed with him through the vorns. His optics lost focus as heat pooled behind his pelvic armour. His valve gave a little spasm and his spike began to pressurise beneath its cover. Oh yeah, those Seekers had been amazing. One’s legs wrapped around the other’s waist, dark hands on wings, lips against smooth, shining armour.

It occurred to Bee just then, that there were a few more things that a Minibot could do in the Ark when he was completely and utterly alone. He grinned. Oh yes, this was going to be good.

He vented a gust of warm air, and settled back again on the seat. Now, where was he? Yeah, that’s right, seeker hands roving all over that glossy pale armour, low stuttering whimpers carried on the breeze.

Bee’s fingers found the heated plating of his spike cover just as a weight settled on the back of the sofa.

“Hehehe, what do we have here…”

“Gah!” Bee shot up, the remote clattering to the floor. To his utter mortification, his panel chose just that moment to click open, his pressurised spike juddering into view. He tugged his gun out of subspace, and tried to hide his spike between his legs, but achieved only an embarrassed half-crouch.

Still, that was no reason to abandon all sense of personal dignity when faced with a large, intimidating, and for some reason completely unshackled, Decepticon.

“Get back in the brig!”

Vortex gave him a blank stare, his expression hidden behind mask and visor. “I don’t think so. Hmm, you a xenophile now? Never knew that.”

Bee glanced at the TV. Oh frag.

“It isn’t what it looks like!” he said, and winced. If someone made a list of the wrong things to say in any given situation, that would be up there at the top.

“Uhuh.” Vortex shrugged. A set of energon cuffs spun from one finger. The self same energon cuffs in which he was meant to be confined, with at least three sets of energy bars between him and the rec. room.

“I mean it, back in the brig.” Bee pressed his thighs closer together and willed his spike to depressurise. Why the frag did Vortex have to be so big? Stupid size kink. “Now!”

“Nope.” With a suddenness that made Bee flinch, Vortex vaulted over the back of the sofa and flumped down on his side, his rotors fanning oddly behind him. He patted a cushion. “How about you get back on the chair thingy?”

Bee shook his head. OK, it was time to bring in his training. Firstly, assess the situation: Combaticon interrogator on sofa, reaching for remote control, turning off TV… OK, so at least the human porn wouldn’t be an issue any more. He never got as far as ‘secondly’.

“Wanna frag?”

Bee’s train of thought crashed. “What?”

“Simple enough question.” Vortex shuffled around, adopting a pose very similar to that which Bee had taken only a few short breems before. It gave Bee a nasty feeling that Vortex had probably been in the room with him for far longer than he realised.

Bee tried again with the gun. He didn’t want to discharge it indoors, but he was beginning to think he might not have a choice. He aimed it at the ‘con’s chestplates – at this range he couldn’t miss – and begun to squeeze the trigger.

“You really want me back in the brig?” Vortex didn’t sound concerned, just curious. The small rotors attached to his right arm spun, wafting a breeze directly at Bee’s exposed spike. Not good.

Bee nodded a response, and tried to lean away from the wafting air. Frag, the ‘con was big. Like, seriously big. Charge raced through his interface circuitry, and Bee realised a little too late that this was something he really ought to stop thinking about.

“OK,” Vortex said. “If you do something for me.”

Bee’s spike throbbed, although that sinking feeling remained in his tanks. He was pretty sure he knew where this was going, and it wasn’t a good direction at all. It was, in fact, the kind of direction that would either leave him as the laughing stock of the Ark until the day he rusted to scrap, or it would leave him dead.

He didn’t much like either option.

“You can keep the gun,” Vortex said. “I kinda like it.”

“That's good of you,” Bee replied, aiming for sarcasm and hitting static. He coughed, trying to knock the slag out of his vocaliser. Why was this such a turn o- No! This wasn’t a turn on. Really. Not the size thing, not the wanton Decepticon on the sofa thing, and certainly not the getting laid thing. And if he kept repeating that to himself, he might just believe it.

Vortex laughed. There was a click, and his battle mask slid aside. He ran the tip of his glossa over his denta and gestured at Bee’s hardware in a way that made the Autobot tingle.

“So, you’ve got the full set under there, right? Always wanted to spike a Minibot.”

Bee coughed again. That pool of heat had spread to his valve, which chose just that moment to begin to ache. He couldn’t press his thighs any more tightly together, and he certainly didn’t trust himself to speak.

“So, what do you say? You ride my spike a while, and I’ll go back in the brig like a good prisoner. No one need ever know.”

It couldn’t be that easy… Bee slammed down on the thought. Fragging the ‘copter would _not_ be easy. He’d heard the stories. He’d need a degree in advanced BDSM just to know where to start.

“Uh…” he said, being a suave mech who knew how to handle himself in difficult situations.

Vortex gave him a confident, unconcerned grin. Actually no, that wasn’t true. He gave Bee’s spike a confident, unconcerned grin while trailing his fingers across his own pelvic armour. “You like big mechs, right?”

Oh frag yes. Bee’s fans kicked on, and he could have offlined there and then from pure embarrassment. This was the enemy, for Cybertron’s sake! He wasn’t meant to think of him in that way. Or in any way, really, other than as a target, or a prisoner in need of a cube of low grade at 2100 hours.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Vortex grinned and beckoned Bee closer. It was an astrosecond too late that Bee realised he wasn’t actually out of arm’s reach.

Vortex’s fingers wrapped around his spike, and Bee almost dropped the gun. “Oooooh!”

“Mmmmm, hot little thing, aren’t you?”

Bee’s leg struts melted as the grip grew tighter then dissolved into a deft, rippling touch that spread a quivering heat to every inch of his sensor net.

His optics flickered, and in the brief – and oh so dangerous – moment of recalibration, Vortex moved off the sofa and bent to lick the tip of Bee’s spike.

“Oh Sigma…” Bee trembled. He hadn’t had this in… frag, he couldn’t even remember. No one wanted to ‘face a Minibot. Not even Cliffjumper, and he _was_ a Minibot. And yet here was a Decepticon, someone who by rights should have slagged him soon as look at him, with his warm grey lips tight around his spike, inching their way down as his glossa danced against the underside.

It was all Bee could do to keep a hold of the gun, let alone aim it. He didn’t know how he managed to stay upright. Slag, he didn’t know how he managed to stay conscious. Having that pressure on his spike, hot and tight and writhing. It was amazing. Better than amazing. He risked looking down and utterly lost it. His hips bucked as the overload tore through him, and he found himself holding tight to a flange of the ‘con’s helm, riding the aftershocks as Vortex continued to lap at his hardware.

Eventually, the ‘con pulled back, and Bee shuddered as cool air slammed against the lubricant-slick surface. Vortex looked up at him, and licked his lips in a way that made Bee want to sit in a dark room for a while and think of something completely un-erotic, something that wasn’t likely to get him into any more trouble than he was already in.

OK, not actually _want_ , it just made him think he should.

Thank Sigma that Red Alert had removed the security cams from the rec. room. Actually, thank Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, whose bout of athletic late-night interfacing beside the energon dispenser - all of which was caught on tape – had caused him to.

“Oh look,” the copter said. “You really are fully equipped.”

Bee squirmed as Vortex found, and began to caress, the seams of his valve cover. He brought the muzzle of the gun back up, but the needy quiver of his interface array made aiming nigh on impossible.

“You said,” Bee began, but stopped as Vortex squeezed his aft. He tried again. “You said you’d go back in the brig.”

Vortex continued to stroke Bee’s most intimate plating. “Ride me, and I will.”

“But you’re-”

“Twice your size and four times you weight?” Vortex grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

Scared? Now, there was something he really ought to be. Despite the gun – which Vortex didn’t seem at all worried about, something which itself should have been a matter for serious concern – and despite the processor-blowing overload, Bee knew that abject terror was probably the most sensible reaction. And yet…

Bee gestured with the gun. “Get on the sofa.”

He wasn’t sure where that came from, because if anyone was in control here, it really wasn’t him, but it seemed to work. He bit his lip, trying in vain to suppress a needy whimper as Vortex’s fingers left his armour.

The copter settled back on the cushions, his rotors bending in ways they probably weren’t meant to. His spike cover retracted, and Bee’s optics widened. He fought a stab of apprehension. Why the frag did big mechs always have to be proportionate?

But the apprehension was followed almost immediately by a rush of heat to his valve, and an ache so intense it was almost painful.

Sure, said a treacherous little voice at the back of his processor, you know that big mechs are usually proportionate, but when was the last time you actually had one?

“What are you waiting for, an invitation?” Vortex arranged his arms over his head, adopting the attitude of someone who was about to do absolutely nothing for a while and enjoy every last astrosecond.

“Frag you,” Bee snapped. How in the pit was he meant to do this? Not that he didn’t know how to interface, but was he expected to just leap aboard and-

Vortex cut him off mid thought. “Frag me? I was hoping you would.” He reached down to run a lazy finger the length of his spike. “Or do I have to do everything myself?”

Keeping hold of the gun, Bee bit back another less-than-witty riposte, and got a leg over the sofa. Getting a leg over Vortex was a little more tricky, especially with one hand full, but finally Bee was poised with his valve just above the tip of the ‘con’s spike.

“Mmmmm.” Vortex rocked his hips, tapping his spike against Bee’s valve cover. It released with an hydraulic hiss, and Bee felt another stab of apprehension, which mingled with the ache in his valve and tingled back through into his re-pressurising spike. He was going to be sore tomorrow – if he even got to see tomorrow – but the heat from Vortex’s plating lapped against the rim of his valve, and Bee found that he really didn’t care.

‘Tease,” Vortex commented. He rocked his hips again, the end of his spike sliding against Bee’s rim. Bee sighed, a shudder rippling through him. One overload just wasn’t enough; his valve had needs. Needs that certainly weren’t being fulfilled by anyone on the Ark.

And it wasn’t like this was really happening. It couldn’t be. Come on, the intrepid and incredibly stealthy Bumblebee, lowering himself onto a Decepticon’s spike, the delicate ridges hitting sensor nodes he’d forgotten he even had, his rubberised lining stretching until it felt as though he couldn’t take any more. No – Bee heaved for air – there was no way he’d do something like this.

Vortex moaned. “Mmmmmm, slag, you’re tight.”

“Unf!” Bee’s optics flickered as his valve spasmed. He braced his thighs against the copter’s hips, his free hand clinging to the back of the sofa. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so full. He had no idea what he’d do if Vortex decided to move. Pass out probably.

The ‘con appeared to have got the same idea. Grinning wickedly, he seized Bee by the waist and began to thrust.

“Oh frag!” Bee was full, far too full, but each warning spark from his over-stretched lining came with a delicious bloom of heat. His engine revved and his hydraulics quivered.

“Mmmmf, slag it, Autobot, aim!” Vortex seized his arm and pointed the gun back at his own head. “Oh yeah, that’s more like it!” The hand returned to Bee’s waist, the grip growing ever tighter as each thrust drove the ‘con’s spike deeper, stretching him a little more while the charge built, each node sparking one after the next in a pattern Bee couldn’t even begin to anticipate.

“Oh frag oh frag oh frag!” He shuddered, little warnings popping up on his HUD: ‘optimal valve capacity exceeded’, ‘dangerous levels of pressure detected on abdominal plates 4 and 5: localised damage expected’, ‘overload imminent’.

Overload imminent? Oh frag no, he couldn’t. They’d only just started! But he did, the shock searing up from his valve to his processor, turning everything grey for one glorious moment of ecstasy. Then release, his fans working at maximum, his gyros fragged. Dizzy, he slumped forward onto Vortex’s chestplates.

“You don’t get much, do you?”

Bee supposed it was meant as a taunt, but with his valve still more than full, he felt immune to the barb. It took a few astroseconds for his processor to uncloud, and the realisation to hit him and that his overload hadn’t triggered the ‘con’s interface hardware.

And that, in turn, was forgotten as Vortex tugged him forward and began to suck on one of his horns.

“Ooooooooooooooh…” Nothing mattered any more. Not the prisoner escaping, not the prospect of being court-martialled for trying to ‘face him back into his cell. Not the slight, intimate twinges as the tip of Vortex’s spike slid slowly back and forth across nodes already raw and over-sensitised.

“You like that, huh?” Vortex asked, his words vibrating through the metal.

Bee could only nod, fingers scrabbling against the copter’s hot armour. He tried to scoot back, to get more of the spike inside him. But that brought his helm just a little too low and gah! Why did ‘facing larger mechs have to be so difficult?

Vortex licked his way up the horn and nibbled on the end. Bee groaned.

“I think,” Vortex whispered, “I wanna see you bent over that table.”

Bee’s valve clenched at the thought, sending tremors to his every extremity. Now, he knew, would be the time to flee. He still had the gun, he could get to the door, drive to the nearest lockable room and comm. for help.

Yeah, getting out of there, that was what he was doing. Not, for example, walking very shakily over to the table and leaning his weight onto his hands, still – awkwardly – clutching the gun.

“Mmmm, now spread your legs.”

Against his better judgement, he didn’t run. That voice went straight to his interface circuits, compounding the urgent throbbing of his valve. He bit back a whimper, and moved his feet further apart.

“Head back.”

Again, Bee obeyed. It was foolish, dangerous, stupid even. But he hadn’t got laid, not properly, in far too long. Years too long. And there was always the chance, if he offlined his optics and brought his overactive imagination into play, that he could imagine that it was Optimus pounding him to his third overload.

“Tasty.”

Bee squirmed as something slid around the rim of his valve. Fingers, by the feel of it, slippery and curious. Exploring him, teasing sparks from the nodes at his opening, then vanishing for a moment only to settle around the tip of his spike. They pinched.

“Arghhhh!” Bee tensed, his valve clenching, but the fingers had moved on, soothing and stroking, coaxing more lubricant from the tip, allowing the safe passage of metal against metal.

“You’ll be a good little Autobot for me, won’t you?” Vortex whispered.

Bee whimpered again at a new pressure on the opening of his valve. The end of the ‘con’s spike, it had to be. He groaned and tried to edge back onto it. Vortex held him.

“I said, you’re going to be good, and you are. Now, lean your head back further.”

Bee obeyed, arching his neck, exposing his throat – and sighed as one of his horns was engulfed in Vortex’s mouth.

Then Vortex thrust forward and that sigh almost turned to a scream, the ‘exceeds capacity’ warning flashing urgently. He cancelled it, and moved his feet a little further apart, angling himself as best he could.

“Oh Sigma.” This was good. It was better than good. It was amazing. It shouldn’t be – this was the enemy, for frag sake! – but it was. He was overheating, dizzy, and sore. But the harsh thrusts of the spike cut through the soreness, sending pleasurable thrills right the way up inside him, combining with the ever-moving pressure on his spike and the glorious teasing, sucking, licking on his horn.

He leaned into it, pressing back against the spike, drawing it deeper inside him.

“Faster,” he panted, a loud cry escaping his lips as the ‘con did just that. Faster and harder and oh frag the charge was building, the heat growing.

How the slag many times could he overload in one day anyway? Bee had no idea, but he was so very close, and this time he thought that maybe, just maybe, the ‘con might be too.

He gasped, his senses reeling as Vortex bit hard on his horn. A squeal as metal buckled, an answering staticky screech from his own vocaliser, and an incandescent rush of current as the ‘con overloaded deep inside him, tripping his own systems into a release as good as he’d ever had.

His elbow servos buckled, his chin connecting with the table. “Uuuuur.”

“Hehe, that was fun.” Vortex drew back and slapped him on the aft. “Yeah, a lot of fun.”

Bee’s valve quivered, and his knees chose just that moment to seek intimate contact with the floor. “Gerbackinthebrig,” he mumbled.

“Heh, yeah,” Vortex said. “Maybe some other time.” He seemed to pause a moment, and Bee couldn’t help but sigh at the soft touch of fingertips against his undamaged horn. Vortex lent down and whispered in his audio. “I’ll be back for that.”

Then he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There have to be consequences...

Bee groaned.

Everything ached. From his valve to his horn to the tips of his fingers where they’d pressed altogether too hard against the marble tabletop.

He knew what he should do. He should get up, go visit the washracks, have some energon. Check the sofa for tell-tale traces of lubricant.

But knowing and doing were two very different things. Instead, he sighed into the heat of post-interfacing exhaustion, and took his optics offline.

He awoke to a hand on his shoulder. Urgent words crackled from a stressed vocaliser.

“Bumblebee! Bumblebee, can you hear me?”

“Urr…” Bee moaned.

“He can hear me! Huffer, go get Ratchet!”

Oh slag. Bee froze, snapping from the dizzy daze of recharge to fully alert and oh-so-embarrassed wakefulness in less than the time it took his processor to recognize the source of the voice.

Wheeljack.

Bee remained frozen. To fake unconsciousness or not to fake unconsciousness, that was the question. Slag slag slag, why didn’t he get up when he had the chance?

Cool hands on his arms, tugging him over and oh Sigma, no! His panels were still open, both of them.

Bee leapt up, slamming his hardware shut. He only just missed the tip of his spike.

“I’m OK, I’m OK!”

“Oh no, Bee.” Wheeljack sighed. The look he gave Bee was replete with sympathy and tinged with anger. “Oh, Bee, it’s OK, you’re safe now.”

Safe? What the frag did he mean?

An alarm began to sound; the clatter of armoured footsteps heavy in the corridor. Yeah, right, Vortex had escaped.

Wheeljack’s mask juddered, an echo of movement from his hidden faceplates. “Ratchet’s on his way.”

“Why? Bee spoke before thinking, then the realisation hit him. Uh-oh. “It’s not what it looks like?” he hazarded. But no, it didn’t sound any better this time around.

“Hey, you wanna sit down?” Wheeljack asked.

Bee gave the sofa a guilty glance. Yep, lubricant stains. And scorch marks. Well, the copter _was_ hot… No! Bad Bee!

His capacitor twinged and his fuel pump raced. How in the name of Cybertron was he going to get out of this one?

The door opened, and Bee jumped.

Ratchet entered, giving Wheeljack a grateful look.

Two choices, Bee thought. Fess up, or feign amnesia.

He looked down at his chest plates, where streaks of grey overlay the sunshine yellow. OK, if he was going to feign amnesia, about five astroseconds ago would have been a really good time to start. Even better would have been straight after he woke up.

He sighed; why couldn’t his processor just throw him a solution? Surely lying couldn’t be _that_ hard.

Another option occurred to him. Vortex was a Decepticon; Decepticons were evil. And as far as evil Decepticons went, Vortex was an epically nasty piece of work; people would be willing to believe just about anything of him. Yep, he sure was evil, not to mention large and dominating, and oh the feel of that spike thrust deep inside and gah! Mustn't think of that. Stupid valve, stop throbbing. No spike for you.

No spike ever again if the ‘bot you’re attached to gets court-martialled for letting a Decepticon go free.

The temptation of the third option was intense. Blame everything on Vortex. Tell Ratchet he was forced. It would explain it all; the lube stains on the sofa, the damage to his horns, the position in which Wheeljack had found him.

“You can tell me,” Ratchet said. “But you don’t have to. Just tilt your head and let me take a look at your sensors.”

Bee gaped. He didn’t even have to say anything. He could just keep quiet and let their assumptions run away with them. Vortex would take the blame, and Bee could just get on with his life without the shame of everyone knowing how much he’d enjoyed it.

Sure, they’d all be thinking something far worse, but at least no one would think that it was his fault.

He tilted his head, trying not to wince as Ratchet probed the damage to his horns. All he had to do was keep quiet.

He couldn’t do it.

“I’m sorry!” he blurted. “He got out, I don’t know how! And he’s so big, and he was there leaning on the sofa and I didn’t know he was in the room, and he said ‘wanna frag?’ and he went down on me and I just don’t get any and slag he’s hot, and I’m sorry! I couldn’t help myself!”

Ratchet’s jaw dropped.

“I really am,” Bee said. “I didn’t mean to screw him, it just… kinda happened.” OK, and that was the sound of plausible deniability vanishing out the window.

Ratchet’s optics flickered, and his lips twitched up at the corners. After a few astroseconds, he began to laugh, relief evident in the droop of his doorwings. He grinned, his grip on Bee’s helm no longer quite so gentle.

“You horny little fragger.”

* * *

And that seemed to be the opinion of the Ark at large. Sure, there were the naysayers, disgruntled prudes who found nothing whatsoever amusing in Bee fragging a ‘con twice his size. Huffer, Gears, Brawn, Sunstreaker, Mirage. But they were the minority.

Unsurprisingly, the official line was censure. Punishment duty, a reduction in privileges, a short stay in the brig. But Wheeljack kept him company, and even Perceptor couldn’t look at him any more without cracking a smile.

As he scrubbed the Aerialbots’ washrack floor for the fourteenth day in a row, Bee also couldn’t keep the grin off his faceplates. He’d fragged a Combaticon, and he’d got away with it.

On the whole, things could be a lot worse.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now with added Blast Off!

Vortex beckoned him from the other side of the fuel storage tank. To his right, the Autobot frontliners crouched, launching a barrage of laser fire at an enclave of Decepticon troops. Bumblebee didn’t stop to wonder how Vortex had got away; he’d managed to escape the brig of the Ark, getting away from Starscream and Astrotrain was probably a walk in the park compared to that.

Watching the ‘get over here’ gestures, Bee cursed that ‘I couldn’t help it, I was horny and he’s really hot’ was the kind of excuse that would only work the once.

He should have known better. Slag, he _did_ know better. So, why was he taking advantage of everyone looking the other way to sneak around the oil tank?

This was a bad idea. A _seriously_ bad idea. And his circuits thrilled at it.

More to the point, his interface hardware thrilled at it, a dribble of lubricant seeping through the seam of his valve cover. Slag, wasn’t that meant to be water tight?

Thankfully, the half-crouching run everyone seemed to favour during combat stopped it from dripping down his leg.

Sneaking away from his comrades to creeping around the side of the fuel tank didn’t stop being a bad idea. Especially as Bee edged into a secluded nook between high metal walls. The noise of battle was loud, but muffled. And the Combaticon was nowhere to be seen.

Oh slag. This was a _really_ bad idea.

Images of traps and capture and getting well and truly slagged zipped through his mind, and his finger tightened on the trigger.

Then someone grabbed him from behind and his finger jerked, laserfire shooting wildly into the sky.

“Mmmm, hey, hot stuff.”

Bee relaxed, realising a little too late what an utterly stupid move that was. Then he moaned as those dark hands began to roam over his body.

“Pleased to see me?” Vortex asked.

Bee whimpered. Course he wasn’t. What the slag kind of question was that? And oh Sigma, was that a large, hot, and eminently hard spike pressed up against him. Because if it was, then Bee’s answer had just turned to ‘yes’.

“Ohhhhh!” Bee gasped as Vortex began to suck on his horns, one after the other as his fingers explored the tactile underside of Bee’s bumper.

Bee’s valve cover slid silently aside.

“Vortex, where are…” A new voice, oh no!

Bee tensed again, his head snapping up, clocking Vortex on the chin.

“Ow! Hey! Hehehe.” Vortex squeezed him, but Bee was too horrified to register the pain.

Blast Off took up the whole of the entrance to their secluded little nook. And he did not appear impressed.

“What precisely do you think you’re doing?” The shuttleformer’s purple optics gleamed, and Bee’s fuel tank gurgled. Vortex’s hands roamed lower.

“What does it look like?” Vortex said. “I’m about to fuck an Autobot.”

“Guh!” Bee doubled over as Vortex found his exposed valve. He didn’t catch Blast Off’s reaction. Having two large fingers feel their way up to his ceiling node was just a little bit distracting.

“You want in?” Vortex asked. Bee’s valve clenched. Frag no! Sure, he liked big mechs, but Blast Off was enormous! And scary as the pit.

“Hardly,” Blast Of sneered. “Carry on, and be quick about it.”

Vortex laughed, and yanked his fingers free. Bee hissed; that had been just a bit too rough. Still, the heat of that pressurised spike melted straight through his armour, and his circuits thrummed in anticipation.

“He gonna watch?” he managed, waving his pistol in Blast Off’s general direction.

“Sure.” Vortex rubbed his palms over Bee’s spike cover, fingertips grazing the rim of his valve.

“Mpfh!” Bee tried not to move. It he squirmed, those fingers would spark against more nodes, and he really didn’t want to come too soon, not like last time. And if he tried to get away, he might not get laid at all.

Get away, yeah, that’s what he should want to do. But if he tried to escape, Blast Off would probably shoot him. Then Vortex would capture what was left, a nice little prize to take back to Combaticon HQ for interrogation and torture and the Matrix only knew what else.

But, most importantly, he wouldn’t get laid.

He didn’t want to admit how much that feeling of complete and utter fullness had consumed his thoughts; about how many times he’d snuck off early to his berth to pump his spike and imagine that his own paltry fingers were fucking him anywhere near as well as he’d been spiked that time in the rec. room of the Ark.

“Turn around,” Vortex said. Bee did so. Catching sight of the fascinatingly well-proportioned hardware again was like a kick in the pelvic plating. Vortex leaned down, licking the length of one horn. Bee sighed.

“Hurry up,” Blast Off snapped. “Just frag him already.”

Vortex lifted Bee, licking his way down the Minibot’s helm to his throat.

“Spread your legs for me,” he whispered, and Bee could have sworn that he heard Blast Off make a noise – soft and subtle – that indicated something other than impatience.

Bee clung to Vortex’s shoulders, a Decepticon insignia filling his vision, and wrapped his legs as much as he could around the Combaticon’s hips.

Hands clasped his aft, supporting him, and then, “Oh frag yes!” He wasn’t exactly ready, but he didn’t care. An initial burst of pain as he stretched as wide as before, but fast this time. “Unf!” Too fast. He bit his own lip, dismissing each warning as soon as it flashed up.

Oh Sigma, he shouldn’t be enjoying this.

“Argh!” He cried out at the cold shock of a wall at his back. But the raw heat of friction, of electricity sparking in his valve, was just too good.

He caught sight of Blast Off over Vortex’s shoulder, half expecting him to have his spike out, to be pleasuring himself or waiting to take a turn despite what he’d said. But he was just watching, impassive, his expression hidden, and his arms folded across his chest.

Bee caught his gaze and held it. And oh Maximus, how the frag hadn’t he know how much of a turn on this was before? Vortex pounding him against the wall, each thrust a shock that reverberated right the way up to his horns. Blast Off watching, still and silent, his attention focussed solely on Bee. And hot damn, was that an energy field pulse? He had no idea the Decepticons even did that.

“Uh, oh, frag oh frag oh frag oh!” Bee’s helm flew back, banging on the wall, and his valve flooded with the incandescent buzz of overload. “Oh yeah!”

Evidently, it had also done it for the copter. Vortex slumped over Bee, his fans louder even than the roar of battle.

“Enough,” Blast Off said, in that same bored tone. But when he hauled Vortex back, Bee could feel the heat radiating off him.

“Ugh,” Bee slid down the wall, lading on his aft. He looked up into the end of Blast Off’s laser pistol.

“Leave.”

Bee scrambled for the exit, which was – thankfully – no longer blocked by the enormous, sinister shuttle.

As he left, he caught a glimpse of Vortex on his knees, looking up at his team mate, a hungry grin on his face.

Well, thought Bee, there was a scene he wasn’t going to forget in a hurry.


End file.
